Politics & Policy

I Hate You, Bristol Palin

It’s the happiest of New Years: We have another Palin to drive us crazy.

Okay, I’ve just about had it with you people. Yes, I’m talking to you, the Palin family of Moosewhack Village, Bumblefork County, Alaska, USA, Earth, Universe. I mean, who in the name of old Joe Hill are you to be constantly coming into my living room unannounced and uninvited?

It was bad enough when the most unqualified person in American life — I’m talking to you, Sarah — had the effrontery to run for vice president. It got even worse when, after your well-deserved shellacking at the hands of the most qualified person in America — that would be His Exalted Majesty, the Emperor Barack Hussein Obama II, Lord of the Flies, Master of the Hoops, and Keeper of the Holy Cities of Honolulu and Chicago — you refused to slink off into the obscurity of the Arctic Standard Time Zone, or whatever that place is called where the sun don’t shine. Now you even have your own reality show, on which no moose or caribou is safe.

But while you’re banging away at the wildlife population and then popping their remains in a pot for dinner, you’ve bequeathed us Bristol, little miss Dancing with the Stars and now the proud owner of some choice Arizona real estate, to carry on the family tradition of driving us nuts.

Listen to me: It’s just not right that you Palins are using the trash culture we’ve so lovingly created against us — that was meant to inflict Britney Spears on your wingnut families, not to blast us with Bristol. Teenaged unwed mother? Check. Tabloid fodder? Check. Famous for being famous? Check. Normally, we would endorse all those things, just as, in a rational world, we would embrace Mama Grizzly for her “compelling personal narrative,” as the Finemans of the media like to call it.

But, of course, we don’t. Because we can’t. Because to do so would mean the end of our carefully maintained double standard — and the minute you folks on the right no longer accept your second-class status in the moral pecking order, we are finished. 

As is well known, I am a man of consummate fairness and nearly infinite tolerance. Like the White Queen in Alice in Wonderland, I can tolerate at least six impossible things before breakfast, and in the interests of No Labels civility, I fervently believe that the families of political figures should always and everywhere be off limits.

Except, of course, for you, the Palin family. Because you’re simply intolerable. Your very existence makes the heads of all progressives want to imitate that scene from Scanners and explode in a shower of compassionate brains and blood. Just when we think we’ve finally put you in the ground, you get up and keep coming at us, like the demon spawns of Audie Murphy and Annie Oakley, circling us with your repeating rifles and your white teeth and your flashing gams and your voices that would shatter Waterford crystal.

You are making us mental, you people. The thought of you fills us with an overwhelming desire to see your Harvard transcripts, or at least your high-school diplomas, which we frankly doubt you have. Your very being-ness causes us to doubt our belief in the existence of Gaia and sends us screaming back to Heidegger’s Sein und Zeit for comfort and consolation. Watching Bristol waltzing about in a slinky dress on national television and coming in third behind Dirty Dancing star Jennifer Grey and Disney’s Kyle Massey is enough to cause me to lose control of my Prius and possibly sideswipe a homeless shelter for unwed lesbian mothers awaiting deployment to Afghanistan in our new post-DADT army. I’m sure I’m not alone in my despair.

For you simply won’t go away. Even worse, you have the power to cloud men’s minds. Last fall we rolled out one of our biggest guns — Vanity Fair! — which deployed a Princeton-educated hatchet man named Michael Joseph Gross to chop you up into little pieces. Alas, he couldn’t tell Trig from another baby boy, because as we fair and tolerant lefties know, all Down-syndrome babies look alike. Our bad! Next time, we’ll send someone from a real school, like Columbia. At least he’ll be able to tell Piper from Willow.

Which brings us back to Bristol. Oh, the schadenfreude we experienced when news of her pregnancy broke right in the middle of the campaign! The delight we took when the ex-boyfriend, what’s his name, made the rounds of our sympathetic media shoulders and slammed Sarah for . . . I forget what, exactly. Existing, probably. After all, what would Chris Matthews and Norah O’Donnell and Joe Klein and Andrea Mitchell and Mika Brzezinski have to talk about without the Palins? Politics? Hegel?

And now Bristol’s gone and bought herself a house in Maricopa, Ariz., with some of her Dancing with the Stars swag, the nerve. Doesn’t she realize that, according to Gawker (our bible of snark), it’s a trashy McNeighborhood filled with foreclosed houses, half an hour away from Phoenix? I mean, what young person in her right mind would want to shop for a bargain starter home? Next thing you know, she’ll be moving to Detroit and fixing up an old mansion in Brush Park or Boston-Edison and giving employment to local contractors, and that will just make us hate her all the more.

You see, we liberals are locked in an eternal profane embrace with you, the Palin family. You are the living, breathing antithesis of everything we hold dear — credentialism, law schools, expensive restaurant meals, gun-free zones, live-in mothers-in-law, the Punahou School, and skinny black ties worn with white shirts. Why can’t we quit you?

Time to make lemonade: Bristol’s new house is conveniently located near one of the several hundred McCain residences, and so even a moron can see what I’m about to propose. In the wake of Tron, the air has gone out of the market for film sequels in Hollywood, but reality television — that’s where the money is. So why not this:

Beyond Celebrity Thunderdome II: Bristol Palin vs. Meghan McCain — This Time, It’s Personal. Two babes enter, one babe leaves. Hosted by Sheriff Joe Arpaio. Because you know — you just know — that one of them is going to run for Meghan’s father’s seat when it next comes up in 2016, by which time we’ll be in syndication and rolling in residuals.

Bristol, honey — have your agent call my agent and let’s make a deal. Better yet, let’s have lunch at Chaya.

— As he explained in Rules for Radical Conservatives, David Kahane still believes in the rightness of the Progressive cause, and in the political genius of BO2, no matter what you wingnuts say. You can try to talk him out of it at kahanenro@gmail.com, or you can become one of his groupies on Facebook, if he’ll have you, which is doubtful.

Since February 2007, Michael Walsh has written for National Review both under his own name and the name of David Kahane, a fictional persona described as “a Hollywood liberal who ...


The Latest